


Pictures of You

by flawedamythyst



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Clint Barton's Freckles, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Summer Vacation, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 21:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18290345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Two weeks in the Malibu sun with Clint wearing nothing but swimming shorts is enough to shape Bucky's daydreams for the next two years.





	Pictures of You

Bucky hadn’t wanted to go on this vacation, even with Steve insisting that if he was shipping out to a warzone, he needed some proper time off first. But, well, what was the point in having a best friend who was in love with a billionaire if you didn’t get to spend a couple of weeks hanging out in a mansion in Malibu?

Once Steve told him that Sam, Rhodey and Natasha were coming as well, and Natasha was even bringing along her best friend, Clint, Bucky gave in. A group house party was much better than watching Tony and Steve make goo-goo eyes at each other.

He hadn't factored in that he might be the one making goo-goo eyes.

The first time Bucky walked out into the pool area, just in time to see Clint run down the diving board and take a double somersault off it into the water, he damn near swallowed his tongue. The guy was _hot_ , and seemed happy to spend the entire two weeks hanging out either in the pool or next to it in a tiny pair of shorts that left all six foot plus of tanned muscle on display.

Which meant Bucky pretty much did the same, because he didn’t want to miss a moment of watching Clint’s acrobatics on the diving board or the way he sprawled out on the loungers. They spent the days chatting and messing about in the water, playing stupid games with Tony's unexpectedly large collection of inflatables.

Every morning, the first thing Clint did after waking up was to take a cup of coffee out to the pool. He settled in on the edge with his legs dangling in the water and stared out at the view of the sparkling blue sea spread out below the cliff Tony’s house was perched on.

Bucky started to follow him out on the second morning, but he was perfectly happy to take in another view. Clint didn't ever seem to wear more than his swimming shorts, and he was always so relaxed and content as he slowly woke up. It was far more beautiful than the ocean. 

Bucky did keep his phone in his hand, though, so that he could at least pretend he was looking at something other than the tanned lines of Clint's body.

It turned out he wasn’t fooling Clint, though.

“You should take a photo, it’d last longer,” said Clint on fifth morning, taking a sip of coffee and not even bothering to glance over at Bucky.

Bucky considered being embarrassed but it didn't seem worth it, so instead he lifted his phone and did just as Clint had suggested, catching the sunlight sparkling off the mess of Clint’s blond hair, the relaxed slump of his muscled body and the way his gaze was still caught on the horizon. Fuck, Bucky could see freckles forming on his shoulders, how the hell was he meant to resist licking those for another week?

Clint looked over at him with a snort of amusement. “Did you actually just take a picture?”

Bucky shrugged, dropping the phone into his lap. “I guess spending all that time with Steve has taught me to really appreciate fine art.”

Clint blinked for a moment, then started laughing. “Oh man, that was smooth.” He lifted his coffee mug as if toasting Bucky. “Nice going.”

Bucky just smirked back, lifting a shoulder and thinking about maybe making a proper move.

But he was going to Afghanistan in just over a week, and who knew how long he’d end up being there, or how he’d be when he made it home? This wasn’t a good time to start anything that he wanted to last, and he’d spent enough time with Clint now to know that it wasn’t just the shape of his biceps or the way his eyes reflected the blue of the summer sky that had Bucky hooked. He wanted to spend hours chatting to him about his dog, wanted to take him to a range and find out if all his boasting about his aim was justified, wanted to make him laugh and wake up to his smile and curl up with him on winter nights, even after the freckles had faded and the tan was gone, because there was no way he was ever going to be anything other than the hottest thing Bucky had ever seen.

So he left it, because it was better to just look than to get tangled up in something that would barely get started before it had to be over. 

It seemed like Clint got it, because he flirted back and gave Bucky more than a few heated looks when he was lounging around in his own shorts, but he never pushed any further. They play fought in the pool, taking the excuse to get their hands all over each other, but never anything that couldn't just about be handwaved as friendly. They spent the evenings with the others, rather than off alone, but somehow always ended up sitting next to each other. But then, Steve was busy with Tony, and it wasn't as if Bucky really knew the others so well. 

Besides, Clint made him laugh.

On the final night of the vacation, after they’d all had slightly too many beers and Bucky had gone to sit on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling as he watched the moonlight glint off the waves below, Clint came out and sat next to him.

“It’s pretty different to the night sky in Brooklyn, huh?” said Clint.

“You’re from Brooklyn?” asked Bucky, wondering how the hell that hadn’t come up before.

“Yup,” said Clint. “Well, I am now. My apartment’s in Bed-Stuy.” He hesitated, then added, “You should come find me when you get back,” nudging Bucky’s leg with his and then leaving it pressed up close.

“I’ve no idea when that will be,” said Bucky.

Clint shrugged. “You’ll be welcome anytime.” He paused and Bucky saw his jaw clench for a moment in the soft spotlights lighting the terrace, then he leaned in and kissed Bucky’s cheek softly. “I don’t have a pool, but we have grill-outs on the roof in the summer. I think you’d like it.”

Bucky could feel himself staring, his fingers clenching around his beer bottle to stop himself from reaching out. “Clint,” he said, but couldn’t manage anything else.

Clint shrugged, then moved away and stood back up. “Think about it,” he said, and went back inside.

Bucky wasn’t sure how he was meant to think about anything else.

****

Bucky took the photo to Afghanistan with him. He was printing out a few of his family and Steve and his other friends, then somehow his finger slipped and that one ended up coming out as well. He put them all together in an envelope that he could keep in an inside pocket of his uniform and told himself it didn’t mean anything, it was just a reminder of a great vacation.

It stayed in his pocket all through the long months of fighting insurgents, survived him getting ambushed and captured, even survived months of imprisonment and torture, mostly because he did everything he could to make sure the insurgents never found it. He only let himself take out the tiny stack of photographs in the dead of night, when they’d finally left him alone. He shuffled through them one by one, looking at the faces of his parents and his sisters and remembering growing up, at Steve and his other friends and thinking about getting home to hang out in bars and just talk about nothing with them, and then, finally, he’d look at Clint, and let himself dream a future with him.

Holding on to those daydreams was what got him through all the pain and horror without losing himself. He clung to the idea of taking Clint out on a date and making him laugh, of going to his rooftop barbecues and then back to Clint’s apartment to make out, or maybe even moving in with him and making him coffee every morning, watching him wake up as slowly as he had in Malibu. Sometimes, once the wounds the insurgents had carved in his arm turned angry-red and started to puff up, burning as if the assholes had set them on fire, he let himself think about what it might be like to take Clint on a honeymoon somewhere sunny with a swimming pool, where Bucky could watch him show off on the diving board and then lick the chlorine off his freckles in bed afterwards.

By the time Bucky was rescued, half-delirious from the infection spreading through his arm, he was out of it enough to tell the pararescue medic that he needed to get back home so that he could propose to his man.

“Okay,” said the medic, who flicked between being Sam, Will Smith, and a particularly kind-looking panda, “well, seems like we’ll be having a talk about that once we get you out of here, Barnes.”

“Gonna take ‘im to Bali,” muttered Bucky, and then passed out.

When he woke up, he was in Germany and he no longer had a left arm. It took him a while to notice anything beyond that, but when he did he realised his photos, which were all tattered and damaged now, some of them with blood splattered across them where he hadn’t been careful enough, were all carefully framed and displayed on the table next to his bed with the photo of Clint right at the front.

Fuck, things had been so much simpler and easier back then, when all he'd had to worry about was whether or not making out with the hot guy in the tiny swimming shorts was a bad idea.

A month or so later, Bucky got sent home with an honourable discharge, a referral for an alarming amount of physiotherapy, and the number of a therapist that he half-intended to throw away, right up until the first panic attack. All of which pretty much killed the last remnants of his daydreams, because there was no way he could offer this mess to Clint.

****

Six months later, Bucky was just about starting to feel like himself again. He'd only managed three weeks living with his parents before he'd had to beg Steve to let him stay in one of the hundreds of spare rooms he and Tony had, because he needed to stop his mother fussing all over him before he snapped and said something that would make Thanksgiving super-awkward.

Living in Stark Tower's penthouse was a long way from anything Bucky had ever known, which actually helped. Making a clean break with most things that reminded him of his life before helped him focus on creating a new life for who he was now, down an arm and up some PTSD.

He hadn't been able to get rid of the photos, though. They'd been the sole witnesses to the lowest point of his life and he'd poured all his fraying hopes into them. He kept them in an envelope in his nightstand drawer that he touched like a talisman when he had a nightmare but didn't let himself open. Just like all those daydreams he'd had about Clint but which he didn’t let himself revisit now. It had been nearly two years since the holiday in Malibu, he doubted Clint even remembered him. And there was no way he was still single, not a guy like that.

And then Sam's tour of duty ended. 

“Hey man,” he said to Bucky when he came over for a welcome home drink with Steve, “you're looking a lot better than when I last saw you.”

“Yeah,” agreed Bucky, then forced himself to ignore his usual personal space issues to give Sam a hug, because he owed him that much. “Thanks for getting me out.”

It was not nearly enough to express his gratitude, but Sam just shrugged. “All in a day's work,” he said. “Plus it stopped Steve losing his shit and coming out to Afghanistan to get you himself.”

Tony snorted. “Only just,” he said. “I thought I was going to have to cuff him to the bed at one point. I mean, for more than the usual reasons.”

Steve went pink. “I wasn't that bad,” he muttered. 

“You were exactly that bad,” said Sam. “Oh, hey, Bucky, how did it go with your man?”

Tony and Steve turned to stare at Bucky.

“What man?” asked Tony with more interest than was really warranted. 

“No one,” said Bucky, with as much surliness as he could muster. It wasn't enough. 

“This guy was delirious and bleeding out,” said Sam, “and all he could go on about was proposing to his boyfriend and taking him to Bali. Please tell me you didn't chicken out, you were so set on it.”

“Bucky doesn't have a boyfriend,” said Steve with a tone of deep interest. 

“Not yet,” added Tony, with a grin that Bucky did not trust at all.

“I was out of it,” said Bucky. “Who the fuck knows what I was on about?”

“Right,” said Sam, raising an eyebrow. “If you're sure.”

“I am,” said Bucky, hoping like hell that would be the end of it.

****

It really should have been, other than some lingering jokes from Tony because there was never any way to avoid those, except a week later a postcard arrived for Bucky.

On one side was the Brooklyn Museum of Art, and on the other was a message so badly scrawled that at first Bucky thought it was from a child.

_Heard you were back in town and realised I never told you exactly where to find the other fine art in Brooklyn._

There was an address in Bed-Stuy, then a signature that it took Bucky ten minutes to separate out into ‘Clint Barton’, even knowing what it must say. There was a phone number as well, but at least three of the digits looked more like hieroglyphics and Bucky didn't think he had a hope of working it out.

Fuck, he couldn't just ignore that. He slumped on his bed, staring at the evidence that Clint hadn't forgotten about his holiday flirtation like Bucky had assumed he would, and wondered what the fuck he should do. 

Did Clint really want to just pick right back up with this? If someone had told him Bucky had come back, had they also told him _how_ Bucky had come back, one-armed and surly and prone to just locking himself away in his room when things got too stressful?

He was barely a shadow of the guy Clint had met back then. The guy who’d played around in a pool without any personal space issues, who’d taken a photo of Clint just because he looked hot without second-guessing himself.

Fuck, Clint really had looked hot, though. Bucky lost the fight with his willpower and opened the nightstand drawer, pulling out the envelope. Clint's photo was on the top of the stack, creased and faded but it was still clear just how beautiful he was. Did Bucky really want to give up on this without giving it a try? He'd clung to the idea of it so hard in Afghanistan, it felt like he'd be letting himself down if he just threw the postcard out. 

He took a long look at the photo of Clint, then looked back at the scrawl on the postcard. He ran his finger across the words and sighed. Fuck it, he was going to make a play for this and if it went wrong, or Clint changed his mind once he saw how damaged Bucky had become, then at least he'd have tried.

Once Bucky had made the decision he didn't let himself second guess it. He changed his shirt for something a bit smarter, put on his boots and headed out to the metro. 

The problem with the metro was that it took long enough to get to Bed-Stuy that his mind started trying to point out what a mistake this was. He ruthlessly shut it down, using all the techniques his therapist had taught him for intrusive thoughts. He was already on the train, if he turned back now he'd lose that last scrap of self-respect that he was still clinging to. 

He found the address easily enough, but actually going inside and up to the apartment was harder. He fixed his mind on the picture of Clint that he'd looked at often enough to have memorised, and forced his feet to move.

He knocked on the apartment door and set his feet firmly to stop himself from running away. 

It was probably only a few moments before Clint opened the door, but it was long enough for Bucky to feel crushing regret for every decision that had ever led him here. What the hell was he thinking, coming here like he had anything to offer Clint other than PTSD and nightmares? Fuck, he didn't even have a job, he was living off a handful of benefits and his best friend's boyfriend. 

The instant the door opened and Clint was in front of him, all of that vanished because, fuck, how had the guy only got hotter in the last couple of years? And how was he still not wearing a shirt?

Jesus, the photo hadn't come close to representing just how beautiful Clint's shoulders were. 

“Bucky,” said Clint with complete surprise, which was probably a fair reaction.

Bucky shoved his hand into his pocket, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing here. “I got your postcard,” he said. “Anyone ever tell you that you've got really shitty handwriting?”

“Yeah,” said Clint, still sounding dazed. “Natasha, all the time.”

Bucky wasn't sure he'd ever felt this horribly awkward. “I couldn't read your telephone number but as I was in the neighbourhood today anyway, I figured I could drop in and get it.” And yeah, that was a lie, but there was no way he was telling Clint that he’d rushed over from Manhattan less than an hour after getting his postcard. “Seems like maybe this isn't a good time though, so-”

“No!” said Clint. “No, it's a great time, totally, you can definitely come in, maybe have some coffee?”

He opened the door wide, gesturing Bucky in, and Bucky forced his feet to move. 

He didn't get much of a look at the apartment because he was too busy watching Clint's naked back as he headed into the kitchen. Fuck, his muscles were so toned, Bucky wanted to run his hand over all of them. 

Clint flicked on the coffee machine then turned around and Bucky tore his eyes away, hoping like hell that he hadn't been caught staring. 

No such luck.

Clint grinned at him. “Don't worry, I'm not going to put a shirt on. I did promise you some fine art, after all.” He lifted his arms and did a ridiculous flexing thing all across his chest that made Bucky nearly swallow his tongue. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky, eyes fixed on Clint’s abs for longer than was polite before he tore them away and focused back on Clint’s face. Clint was grinning, blue eyes shining with amusement. “You did say that, a couple of times as I recall.”

Fuck, when had he got so bad at this? He’d used to be able to flirt as easy as breathing, especially with someone as hot as Clint.

But then, he thought, thinking back to his last panic attack, breathing wasn’t as easy as it used to be either.

The coffee machine beeped and Clint turned away to pour them some. Bucky took the chance to draw in a deep breath and try to settle his nerves a bit. The problem was he had all those daydreams he’d allowed himself still in his head. He’d dreamed about them making coffee together just like this, Clint pulling Bucky in to make out with him while they waited for the coffee to brew, still sleep-rumpled from the night he’d spent sleeping in Bucky’s arms.

Except Bucky only had one arm now.

Clint turned back to hand him a cup, then leaned back against the counter with his own, easy and relaxed and with his sweatpants sagging so low that Bucky could see the cut of his hip bone. All other thoughts fled from his head.

“You can take another photo if you like,” said Clint, sounding deeply amused, and Bucky dragged his eyes up to look at his face instead.

“Sorry,” he offered, because he probably shouldn’t be leering that openly at the guy.

“Oh no,” said Clint, “definitely feel free to look at me like that whenever you want. That expression on your face is pretty much the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m guessing you don’t own a mirror then,” said Bucky without even thinking about it and, yep, that was how he’d used to flirt, easy and casual with a bit of a drawl. Maybe he could still do this.

“Jesus,” muttered Clint. “Okay, this is- This is actually happening, right? I mean, I don’t want to be that guy, but I’m really hoping this is going to end up in the bedroom in about ten minutes.”

Bucky thought about his missing arm, about how he’d only been able to start taking his shirt off around Steve in the last couple of months, about all the ways his body had changed since they’d been in that pool in Malibu together.

And then he thought about the possibility of getting his mouth on Clint’s skin.

“Why are we waiting ten minutes?” he asked.

Clint snorted, raising his mug. “Got to finish our coffee first. I don’t know about you, but it feels like we’re going to need all the energy we can get.”

Bucky considered that, then tipped his mug back and swallowed it all down in one go, ignoring the way his throat burnt. He’d had worse for shittier reasons, after all. He set his mug down with a pointedly firm hand, then raised an eyebrow at Clint.

“Fuck,” muttered Clint, and he took a deep gulp of coffee as well, then abandoned his mug to step close to Bucky. “Fuck, I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to act smooth about this, you’re just so fucking hot.”

Before Bucky could react to that with automatic denial, because maybe he had been hot once but that had been before Afghanistan, Clint took careful hold of his waist and leaned in to press a kiss to Bucky’s lips and, fuck, that was it. Any restraint Bucky might have had disappeared, and he pulled Clint in closer to take control of the next kiss, finally getting to touch all those acres of beautiful skin, pressing his hand to the lines of Clint’s muscles as their mouths met in a furious, urgent kiss, tongues tangling together.

“Fuck,” muttered Clint, pulling away barely an inch to speak. “Bedroom’s upstairs.”

“Let’s go,” said Bucky, kissing him one last time, then dragging him away towards the stairs.

****

Bucky didn’t notice the photo propped against the lamp on Clint’s night stand until much later, when they were lying naked and tired together in the centre of Clint’s bed. Clint had his head resting on Bucky’s shoulder, apparently unconcerned about the stump of his arm, while Bucky gently traced over his skin with his fingers, trying to remember exactly where the freckles had been in Malibu.

Clint let out a gentle sigh and cuddled into him further, and Bucky shifted to make it easier for him to drape himself over Bucky’s chest. His eye fell on the photo and he felt his eyes widen as he took it in.

In it, he was lying sprawled out on one of the pool-side loungers in Tony’s place in Malibu, wearing nothing but swimming shorts and a pair of sunglasses. Bucky just took it in for a moment, then nudged Clint before he could fall asleep.

“When did you take a photo of me?”

Clint tensed up so completely that it was suddenly like cuddling a plank of wood. “Oh shit,” he muttered, lifting his head up to give Bucky a caught-out look. “I forgot that was there.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “How long has it been there?”

Clint winced, then dropped his head again with a groan. “About two years,” he mumbled. “Look, okay, I get it, it’s freaky as hell, like some kinda stalker thing. I just wanted to make sure I remembered you.”

Bucky looked at the photo again, at the relaxed look on his face and the way his limbs were sprawled. “Wait, was I asleep?”

Clint groaned again. “Yeah, okay, it’s exactly that bad. I took a photo of you sleeping like a creeper, then kept it by my bed for two years, but in my defence-” He paused, then shook his head. “No, okay, I’ve got nothing.”

Bucky could feel that he was still tensed, as if waiting for him to pull away.

Bucky wasn’t going anywhere. “I printed out that photo I took of you and took it to Afghanistan with me,” he said. “Right now, it’s in my nightstand drawer.”

Clint pulled away and lifted his head so that he could stare at Bucky with shock. “You did? Seriously?”

“Yup,” said Bucky.

Clint snorted and shook his head. “Okay, so apparently we’ve got even more in common than I figured.”

“Yeah,” agreed Bucky, running his hand into Clint’s hair and using it to pull him down into a kiss. “Hey, how do you feel about Bali?”

“Never been,” said Clint, kissing him again, and Bucky smiled to himself.

“Guess we’ll have to fix that, one day,” he said, and then rolled them over so that he could lean over Clint and kiss him properly.

****

Bali was beautiful, but not nearly as beautiful as Clint standing by the side of their villa’s pool, wearing nothing but tiny swimming shorts and a wedding ring. It was even more perfect than all the daydreams Bucky had had in Afghanistan, and no photo would ever do it justice.

Not that Bucky didn’t take one anyway, before dropping his phone on a lounger and going to kiss his husband, wrapping him up in his new prosthetic arm and holding him close before he pulled back and pushed Clint into the pool, water erupting in a splash as Clint yelped with surprise.

He was laughing when he surfaced though, grinning up at Bucky. “Asshole!”

“Yeah,” agreed Bucky, and jumped in after him.


End file.
